


We're All Just Animals: Of Considerations and Confirmations

by HimsaAhimsa



Category: Askewniverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimsaAhimsa/pseuds/HimsaAhimsa
Summary: Bob ogles his friend, who's ogling National Geographic.  Boners ensue.





	We're All Just Animals: Of Considerations and Confirmations

**Author's Note:**

> Title: We're All Just Animals: Of Considerations and Confirmations  
> Fandom: ViewAskewniverse  
> Pairing: J/SB  
> Genre: Humor, Sap, Angst  
> Rating: M (Just in case boners warrant such a rating.)  
> Words: Roughly 1700  
> Disclaimer: They aren't mine *sobs* but I like to play with them. They puts the lotion on. But seriously, please don't sue me.  
> Warnings: Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.  
> Credits: Quote from National Geographic News  
> Summary: Bob ogles his friend, who's ogling National Geographic. Boners ensue.  
> A/N: This may require follow-up with a case-by-case study of their behavior as it mirrors various aspects of the animal kingdom, time permitting. Jane Goodall, eat your heart out.

The flick of a lighter preceded a long bubbling inhalation, and an equally long controlled exhale. Such was the unspoken mantra, repeated dozens of times, back and forth, back and forth between Bob and Jay that afternoon. And well, most afternoons.

It was a ritual so practiced and unconsciously ingrained, that it had become second nature to keep the sequence going long after an ample high had been achieved, mostly because of the pleasure that the ritual itself provided. At least that was how Bob perceived it. And how could anyone blame them for that, he thought, accepting the lighter from Jay, and smoothing his thumb over the still-warm plastic. He wondered idly for a moment as to whether the warmth that lingered there had been from the flame or from Jay’s own body heat—a thought that seemed to pierce him--and not unpleasantly so--right through the sternum.

With a deep breath, Bob tried to shake off the feeling that had started taunting him as of late: this new awareness of his friend, and the guilt that followed it. His friend, he thought wryly. The friend whom he'd brought into his home a few years back, the friend who had, until very recently, been a mere child--and not only in the figurative sense of the word, which he still most certainly was. The friend who had been broken, scared and legitimately needy--who was, if Bob was brutally honest about it, still harboring a good deal of that baggage under his normally jovial (if not crass and sarcastic) self, because really, as much as Bob could provide basic safety and a broad sense of security (as well as play host to a daily onslaught of half-baked insults made mostly in gest—Jay’s preferred mode of self-defensive avoidance), he wasn’t a psychiatrist or a social worker. No, he was just the guy who lured defenseless kids into his home to prey on them, apparently. The words advantageous and lecherous came to mind.

He tapped the lighter against his thigh a few times, studied the flints up close, and then remembered why it had been passed to him to begin with. Jay, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten; the bong still clasped in his left hand, the base of it resting on his thigh as the television—or moreover, a Mr. Clean commercial, held his heavy-lidded gaze rapt. Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean! The television speakers sung, and the commercial abruptly ended, giving way to another more jarring ad for God knows what.

“Haha,” Jay chortled softly, turning a sleepy gaze onto Bob. “That guy’s so gay.”

Bob huffed through his nose and smiled, wordlessly acknowledging Jay’s epiphany.

If you only knew, Bob thought.

The last commercial segued into the start of a National Geographic program, tribal-sounding drums thumping to a montage of animals stalking, pouncing and running, while a deep voice posed thought-provoking questions that Bob couldn’t follow long enough to give thought to answering. They hadn’t chosen the show—Hell, he couldn’t remember what they’d been watching to begin with, but he was fairly sure that neither of them had changed the channel at any point, or selected this program deliberately.

Still, Jay didn’t seem to mind it. With the bong tenuously-gripped now, and at risk of dumping over, he watched intently, and Bob realized, with that same pang in his chest, that he’d been watching Jay just as intently. 

Maybe he should feel guilty about it; about creeping on his young friend, who probably regarded him like an older brother, or—God forbid—the father figure he’d never had. But they were only four years apart, unrelated and, well, Jay was of age. Straight (he’d proclaim so vigorously one might wonder), young and emotionally vulnerable yes, but, when Bob forced the objective side of his mind to take a decisive role in the matter, it said no, Lunchbox. You’re a big, pathetic fag, but not a predator. Geez. When did the objective side of his mind start sounding suspiciously like Jay, he wondered.

Well, now that that was cleared up (at least until his next inner battle of libido versus ethics), he decided it harmless to continue ogling his friend. And so he did, at length.

Bob watched as Jay’s eyes flicked to and fro, tracking the animals on the screen, and he wondered at the sheer length of his lashes, thinking it an attractive but odd trait for a guy, let alone for someone who otherwise had so very little body hair. And then he realized that he found that particular trait equally as attractive. Jay’s t-shirt collar had stretched a bit with wear over time (Bob knew first hand—he’d only washed it a thousand times), and it hung loosely, exposing the pale skin of Jay’s neck all the way to his prominent collarbone; the faint bluish traces of his veins—the maps of his lifelines--laid bare for Bob to marvel at.

And oh my fucking God. He really was a big, pathetic fag, adoring his best friend like some girl. Or wait—maybe Jay was the girl, here. He was the one with the fucking eyelashes, and long soft hair and ...

Okay, this had to stop.

Right. TV. Just chill the fuck out and watch tv, Bob.

...Roy and Silo, two male chinstrap penguins at New York's Central Park Zoo have been inseparable for six years now. They display classic pair-bonding behavior—entwining of necks, mutual preening, flipper flapping, and the rest. They also have sex, while ignoring potential female mates…

It took a moment for it to sink in—the nature of this … nature program. 

Motherfucker, he cursed inwardly. He was trying to get his mind off of homosexuality, here. Talk about coincidence. But was it coincidence, or perhaps something more? Something like Divine Intervention? Divine Suggestion? And wasn't that (not!) convenient?

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about this? Usually this particular brand of weed supplied the maximum amount of distraction, complete with a side dish of warmth and giggles. Why, then, did these thoughts persist today? 

Bob could feel the flush rising in his neck, as he realized that something else had also risen in his pants. 

Christ, how utterly embarrassing. He hoped that Jay’s captivation wouldn’t falter now, lest he catch sight of the business going on in Bob’s nether regions. Man, would there be Hell to pay for that.

How many times had they watched porn together--hetero porn, no less--comfortably nestled next to one another, boners standing, well, notwithstanding? Why, then, did this one feel so … wrong? Perhaps it was the lack of sexual excitement that this show should elicit that seemed to discredit the legitimacy of his arousal this particular time. Maybe it was the show's subject of homosexuality itself. Whatever it was, he was tired of chastising himself.

Jay was watching intently … wasn't that gay? Hell, it wasn't only gay, but it bordered on bestiality as well. Ha! Well, at least he had fodder for a snarky retort later, if needed. He'd just put that one in his pocket for now.

Suddenly, Bob let go of a breath he’d been unconsciously holding, relaxing in spite of his erection. It definitely had a mind of its own, and it almost seemed to lean toward Jay, as if to say to Bob, “Hey, Buddy, you gonna do something about this pretty kid next to you, or what?” He could hear the voice of his imaginary penis character—something like James Cagney, complete with five o’clock shadow and a cigar—and the absent giggles he’d previously been wondering after took hold at last. 

They didn’t last more than a few puffs of air and a snort, but they were enough to draw Jay’s attention. 

Shit.

Despite the immediate increase of blood that he could feel burning at his cheeks even more fiercely now, his eyes met Jay’s almost involuntarily. Funny, he couldn’t bear to look away, even at the risk of his own humiliation.

Except, he noticed—and with great surprise—that there was no humiliation for him to be had. Conversely, he thought he noticed a flash of humiliation in Jay’s eyes instead, mixed with, what was that, desire? Lust? He'd never seen Jay's eyes so dark before, Bob thought, even as they flicked away and down.

Jay seemed to remember himself quickly then, offering the bong he’d apparently meant to pass along earlier with the lighter, and then making a grab for the remote, started flipping through channels with something akin to urgency. Bob held onto the bong, smiling lopsidedly, a bit confused in the questionably awkward moment. Jay stretched out his legs and crossed them on the coffee table, his elbow coming up to rest on the cushion between them, his palm cradling the side of his head.

Was he hiding his face? Bob wondered. And did his neck look suspiciously more pink now? 

Bob turned to light up once again, held the bong over his mouth and positioned the lighter over the bowl. Only he couldn’t help but peek back out of the corner of his eye to where Jay sat oddly still and …now Bob saw it… in an apparent attempt to wish away an erection of his very own. Jay's thin sweatpants did very little to contain the overt tenting there, and Bob suddenly felt another wave of affection for his friend wash over him. 

With the pronounced lack of hetero porn currently on display or girls present, the number of possible causes for a boner between friends suddenly dwindled down to about two, and Bob was fairly certain that Jay wasn’t really into bestiality. Bob almost reeled with the mirth of fresh possibility, but the NO TRESPASSING sign that practically emanated from his friend stopped him from any plan of questioning or pursuit, at least for now, because that’s how non-lecherous he was. 

For now, Bob decided, he would simply luxuriate in the pure pleasure of watching his (endearing) friend’s discomfiture. 

Take that, you scrawny, pathetic fag.


End file.
